


brown (paper bag, baby) and don't you forget it

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: Agent Robbie Reyes 'verse [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Racism, SHIELD Protocols, security checks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: This is exactly what isn't supposed to happen anymore; Robbie would be a fool to think that the guard's reaction is based on anything but the colour of his skin. A sick feeling gathers in his stomach and sits there with the heaviness of corn syrup in water."Mister Reyes, do you have a history of drug abuse?"(or, the one where Robbie is caught off guard in a place he's beginning to consider home.)





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure where this came from, exactly, but I felt like it needed to be written. there will be a second (happier, less racist) part, I swear. as for now - I hope this makes you think.

“Mister Reyes?” The voice catches Robbie off guard as he goes to pick up his bag from SHIELD’s routine scan. It’s been a long day, and Robbie is surprised how easily he’s found himself going through the motions after a routine mission: swipe his badge, log the chip that marks him as _not_ an LMD, place all of his possessions on the conveyor belt and retrieve them once they’re cleared. The Playground is beginning to have the permanence of ‘later’ and ‘tomorrow’ and for once, Robbie doesn’t really mind.

Maybe it’s about time he settled down.

Robbie shoulders his backpack and strides back over to the security guard, a new guy named Miles or Miller or something. “What’s up?” he asks, covering his mouth with his free hand to hide a yawn. Should’ve slept on the Quinjet.

“Yeah, I’m going to need you to repeat the anti-LMD chip scan,” says Miller (Mildred?) flatly, looking down at his tablet instead of at Robbie. “And give me your bag.”

Robbie is a bit peeved at the way Milbury is speaking, but is too tired to complain. “Yeah, no problem,” he responds, holding out his arm and waiting for Milford to run the device over his wrist.

“The bag?” Milbrook asks with a raised, patronising brow. Robbie shoots him an odd look but complies, handing over the black backpack without another word.

Milligan seems kind of disappointed when the scan shows Robbie is perfectly human. At this point, alarm bells begin to ring in the exhausted agent’s head and he takes a deep breath. “Glad we got that sorted out, man,” Robbie tells Millheim with a forced smile. “Can I –”

But the security guard is already zipping open Robbie’s bag, rummaging around with intent. Eventually Millhorn removes a nondescript brown paper bag and holds it to the light as though in triumph. “This appeared to be suspect in the imagery of your possessions, Mister Reyes. Do you know what it is?”

Robbie squints. As tired as he is, it actually takes him a moment to recognise the sack in Milington’s hands. “Oh. Yeah, Gabe gave it to me,” Robbie replies eventually, nodding. He reaches out to retrieve the bag but Millis jerks away. “I’m not sure what’s in it –”

“Mister Reyes, do you have a history of drug abuse?”

Time slows down. For a moment Robbie can’t think. _This_ is what Millard wants with him? He thinks that Gabe and Robbie are smuggling drugs in and out of a SHIELD facility?

“Woah,” Robbie says defensively, holding up a hand. “I’ve never even smoked before. I’m not –”

Millane cuts him off again, that infuriatingly smug look carved onto the younger agent’s features. “Do you have any family members or allies outside of SHIELD premises who are known to traffic with illegal substances?”

“There are no drugs in that bag!” Robbie regrets raising his voice immediately but can’t help the way his temper flares. How dare this man jump to conclusions without a single iota of proof, to insinuate that either of them would do such a thing? Robbie’s exhaustion is suddenly burned away by the roaring of the Ghost Rider in his ears.

“Please don’t be violent, Mister Reyes.” Millet holds the bag with two fingers, as though it’s poisonous. “You stated that your brother Gabriel brought this into your possession. Is there a possibility that he –”

“Open the bag,” says Robbie, his hands clenching into fists. “You don’t have to question me if you just open the bag and check for yourself.”

“I don’t take orders from someone who could be harboring unknown quantities of dangerous and illegal substances,” Millick snips in return. _“Especially –”_

“Just open it.” Robbie’s voice is tempered steel; he doesn’t want to know how that next sentence would have ended. “Open the bag and let me go.” All the fight drains out of him in an instant and Robbie is just so, so tired.

“Mister Reyes, please calm down –”

“I’m not _doing_ anything,” he snaps, and something in the guard’s tone sets him off again. “If you just open it you’ll see you’re overreacting. Nothing in that bag is dangerous.”

“It’s only the claim of the main suspect –” Millison begins, and Robbie nearly growls in frustration.

“There is no _case_. I’m not a suspect. You’re holding me up because some gift from my brother looked weird on the scan. If you _open it,_ it’ll prove that I’m not lying to you, nor am I a drug smuggler.” Robbie is almost shaking with fury. The Ghost Rider latches on to his scattered emotions and fights for control, whispering directly into Robbie’s mind.

 _Take him out. Make an example out of him, so the world knows what happens when you threaten us._ Robbie is too tired to wrestle for control until after his eyes have glazed over with the Rider’s fire.

And then Millner has a gun. Millon has, in one swift motion, pulled the gun from its place in his holster and Robbie is suddenly looking down the barrel of the sleek black weapon. He is positive that this is no ICER.

Robbie’s brain jumps into fight-or-flight and even the Rider dissipates as he backs away, hands in the air. Fear shuts his mouth and closes his eyes as Robbie sends up a prayer to who knows where, his heart racing.

“Mister Reyes, know that I am prepared to deal with a threat if you remain hostile.”

“Put the gun down,” says Robbie evenly, eyes trained on Millwater’s stance. The hair on the back of his neck is all on end. “I’m not a threat. Put the gun down.”

“Mister Reyes –”

“Please.”

By infinitesimal amounts the weapon lowers, and Robbie lets out his breath. He had hardly been aware that he was holding it. “Just open the bag,” he says again, his voice weary. “That’s all I ask. Open it.”

The guard’s gun clatters to the table, still in reach. The agent’s eyes are still accusatory – of what, Robbie doesn’t know. Millroy snaps on a pair of gloves before unrolling the brown paper bag and peering inside.

Colour instantly floods the man’s cheeks and he stuffs it back into Robbie’s backpack, tugging the zipper of the largest compartment closed. Millward says nothing as he hands Robbie’s possessions back to their rightful owner and waves him through without looking him in the eye.

Robbie is too tired to feel smug, too shaken from being threatened at gunpoint to get any satisfaction from being right all along. When he returns to his room, Robbie opens the bag for himself and only finds a peanut butter sandwich sitting inside. Something angry and hot pricks at his skin, so Robbie dumps the entire thing into the rubbish bin near the door.

This is exactly what _isn’t_ supposed to happen anymore; Robbie would be a fool to think that Mills’ reaction concerned anything but the colour of his skin. The number of times Fitz has skipped security on account of “authorised possession of hazardous materials” is somewhere in the double digits, but Robbie can’t carry a sandwich in a paper bag without putting his life on the line. A sick feeling gathers in the pit of his stomach and sits there with the heaviness of corn syrup in water.

Robbie doesn’t wait for Daisy to return to their room that night. Instead he shoves away the memory of Millfry’s patronising smile and falls asleep in his clothes.

Robbie makes sure he locks the door first. SHIELD doesn’t seem nearly as safe anymore.

 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, Daisy is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like I said before, this fic is heavy. I only ask that you treat it with respect.

Robbie keeps the incident with Agent Mitchell – he finds out the guy’s name eventually – to himself for a month. He would have kept quiet longer if he could have, but four weeks later his hand is forced.

This time, though, Daisy is there. And Mack. And Coulson. And May. And the last thing Robbie wants to do is make a scene. Not here, not over this. Experience has taught him that the best way to deal with white people like Mitchell is to keep his head down and agree with whatever they’re saying.

A drawstring bag is swinging from Daisy’s hands, smacking against Robbie’s calf as she presses up next to him. Daisy is touchy when she’s tired, and the Zephyr had touched down just after midnight. There is only one security guard from what Robbie can see, though Mack is blocking most of the man’s body.

The group is next in line to go through the routine scan when Robbie catches sight of Mitchell’s beady eyes and smug, upturned nose. He flinches hard enough to shake Daisy into some degree of lucidity and she frowns up at him, her hand resting on his chest. “What’s the problem, baby?” she asks, her voice a husky low that calms him down just enough.

“Can we talk?” asks Robbie, his gaze trained on Mitchell’s movements. “Alone?”

Daisy blinks a few times, stifling a yawn. “Sure,” she responds, reaching up to play with the wispy hairs on the nape of Robbie’s neck. “We can go back to our room after we go through securit–”

“No,” says Robbie urgently, and the look in his eyes is an icy shock. Daisy sobers immediately, her hands dropping to his waist as she scans his face. “It has to be now.”

Daisy’s heart surges and her forehead crinkles with worry, her expressive dark eyes wide with concern. “Okay,” she says softly, nodding, “come on.”

The two of them step out of line and Coulson notices right away, a frown stretching over his uncannily average features (Robbie still thinks it’s creepy, how Coulson’s face looks like every white person he’s ever seen while also looking like none of them at all). “Something wrong?” he asks with genuine concern, and Robbie’s heart spikes with the thought of explaining the situation right there, in front of them all.

“Robbie isn’t feeling great,” Daisy says, covering for him like she always does, and Robbie realises that this isn’t a hard lie to sell. He feels sick at the thought of choking out those words, of staring down shame in the face and trying to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault.

Robbie knows, of course, in his head, that it wasn’t – but his stomach is still rolling with the anger and fear of that first night, alone, unarmed.

“Do you need anything?” asks Coulson, moving to go with them, and Robbie’s chest is seized with fear once more. He hears Eli from long ago, advice given in the middle of the night without eye contact, his uncle’s hands shaking in a way Robbie didn’t understand back then. _Don’t make a fuss. Don’t put up a fight. Your pride isn’t worth your life; do you hear me? Never._

“I’m fine,” says Robbie, his voice raspy, and he clears his throat. “I’m fine. Thanks, Coulson.”

The director’s brow is knit with concern but he nods anyway, a certain signal of dismissal. Daisy rubs Robbie’s shoulder as they walk away, leaning into his side. She is warm, and smells nice, and Robbie breathes in the smell of her conditioner as he presses his lips to the top of her head.

“Hon, is everything okay?” Daisy asks once they’ve rounded a corner, looking up at him with those inquisitive dark eyes. “You’re not looking too hot.”

When Robbie doesn’t even crack a smile at her joke Daisy’s concern mounts exponentially and she cups his face in her warm and callused hands. “You know you can tell me,” she says, a furrow in her brow. “Babe, whatever it is –”

“It’s Mitchell,” Robbie blurts before he can talk himself out of it, and the words feel like a betrayal. The Rider growls and stomps his head into a cacophony of self-preservation and rage. “The last time Mitchell put me through security he detained me because he thought I was possessing drugs.”

He spins the tale like a spool of unravelling yarn, gaze trained towards the ground. It’s only when he takes a breath does he look upward again to see the compassion in Daisy’s open face, her eyes wide.

“Oh my God.” A shadow crosses her features, darkening her split lip and bruised cheekbone with fervent passion. A cold fury creeps into her tone like cracks webbing across a frozen lake. “Robbie, did he –”

“He pulled a gun.” Robbie’s hands are balled into fists – from anger or fear, he isn’t sure. “I was tired and the Rider wanted – I don’t know what he wanted, but as soon as he tried to take over Mitchell had a gun.”

“Oh, _Robbie.”_ There is no pity in Daisy’s voice, the way Fitzsimmons or Coulson would pity him. There is no white revulsion that something so terrible “still happens,” no shock and horror and bright, tearful eyes. Daisy understands. Robbie has never been more grateful.

“I wanted to let you know,” he says quietly, his eyes flicking over to meet hers. “I just needed to tell you.”

“I’ll talk to him about it,” Daisy says, her voice hardening in a way Robbie has never heard before. “Believe me, Mitchell is going to _regret –”_

“Daisy.” He cuts her off, soft. “No.”

He watches her hesitate, wavering in a state of uncertainty. “Robbie, we can’t let this slide.”

“Yes,” he says, “we can.”

The look in Robbie’s eyes breaks her heart, and Daisy shakes her head. “Mitchell doesn’t deserve to get off scot-free. He _hurt_ you, Robbie, don’t you understand that he needs to take responsibility for –”

“He’s not AIDA. He’s not a Watchdog. All we need to do is take precautions –”

“Do you trust me, Robbie?” Her question gives him pause and he steps back, affronted.

“Daisy, you know I do.”

She reaches out to meet him halfway and takes his face in her hands again, pressing their foreheads together. Daisy kisses him on tiptoe, alight with gentle fire, and Robbie can’t help but melt into her touch. “I won’t make a scene.”

“We already have.” In his heart Robbie knows this is an argument he can’t win. It’s an argument he doesn’t want to win. Deep down he wants Daisy to pull Mitchell’s truth into the spotlight in front of everyone, to reveal that he is an ugly-spirited, _racist_ man who doesn’t deserve the comfort of this base. He wants to show that Mitchell is more than just “flawed” but dangerous, and that he can’t be tolerated. Not here. Not at SHIELD.

Daisy touches his arm, her eyes imploring. “Can I?”

And Robbie, the Ghost Rider, the Spirit of Vengeance, the bringer of divine justice, who has been through hell twice and come out alive, asks, “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes,” says Daisy, her answer short and honest. “But for you? I’d do anything.”

Robbie takes her hand, squeezes it. “Quake his ass, babe.”

 

* * *

 

Daisy doesn’t make a scene, no sir. She walks up to Mitchell as cool as ever, holds up the line and pulls him aside. Her words are like gunshots just loud enough for Robbie, on the outskirts of the room, to hear. And they’re loud enough for everybody else to hear too, this perfect storm, and with every passing second Robbie falls in love with her a little bit more.

Mitchell is red up to his ears by the time the two of them pass through security, and he doesn’t say a word. Robbie makes a move this time, when they’re on the other side, and rests a hand on Daisy’s back as she leans into his shoulder. Protective. Supportive. Kind.

“I love you,” he says in a low rumble, and Daisy’s lips curl into the sweetest of smiles.

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are always appreciated :) I'm on tumblr as thoughtsbubble if you'd like to yell with/at me.


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